


Sisters Still

by Alvilda_Ao3



Series: Blood is Thicker Than Water - Stories of the Cresswell-Mullan family [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Family Reunions, Gen, Undead Headcanon, Undead Rehabilitation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23082091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alvilda_Ao3/pseuds/Alvilda_Ao3
Summary: A girl travels to find her sister, thought lost to the Scourge.
Relationships: Family (Relationship), Original Female Human Character & Original Female Undead Character
Series: Blood is Thicker Than Water - Stories of the Cresswell-Mullan family [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660879
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	1. Apple Trees

**Author's Note:**

> Interconnected chronological drabbles chronicling Yvaine's journey back into her family's life.

She approached, hesitant still. But Lady Calia had promised. 

_It’s still your sister. None of what happened was her fault._

For six years her family had thought her dead, lost with tens of thousands of other bright, young souls to the frozen wastes of Northrend. 

_The shame, the guilt, the confusion is… all-consuming for many. She may have been free from the control of the Lich King, but not from her own grief. Do not judge her, for she has judged herself more than enough._

Only once her sister had found Lady Calia’s convent, and had regained some connection to the Light, had she sent a simple, apologetic note to their mother’s farm in the Wetlands. 

_I’m sorry I died. I’m with the Lady Calia, in Stormsong Valley. If you wish, you may seek me there. Yours, Ivy._

Lach had been furious once he heard, his answering letter written in so shaky and aggressive a hand it was only just legible. 

_I don’t know if this creature was ever our sister, but our sister would never leave us to mourn an empty grave for half a decade._

Her mother had taken the shock poorly, sent back to the grief of the days just after her daughter’s death.

Her grandmother, always the calmer head in a crisis, quickly ordered her youngest grandchild to investigate, and send back word of her findings.

It was a task that left the mage conflicted. What would she find? An absurd mockery of her beloved older sister, a grisly pantomime animated by pure evil? A cold, empty shell devoid of feeling beyond rage, like the Banshee Queen? 

Or, she barely dared to hope, just Ivy. Scarred, wounded, changed, but still the sister that had yelled at her for getting grass stains all over her pretty new Midsummer dress, and promised to help her wash it so mother wouldn’t find out in the same breath. 

Who devoured dry treatises on military history with the same fervor as she did tawdry romantic novellas. Who absently braided stalks of grass into bracelets while humming under her breath. Who was yelled out of the kitchen every time she tried to help and somehow managed to set something on fire.

The short note had sent everything rushing back. All the little memories she’d tried to forget, to spare herself of the pain every time she read a book her sister would have liked, saw a clump of her favorite wildflowers, walked past the favorite apple tree under which her empty grave lay. 

The overpowering numbness she’d felt when that lion-sigiled missive had arrived, carried by an exhausted private loaded down with dozens others to distribute to the farmsteads surrounding Menethil Harbor, managing only a mumbled _I’m sorry for your loss_ as her mother began to wail before moving on, to the next grieving family, the next howls of grief or yells of rage. There had been so many dead in that last push to Icecrown.

_I regret to inform you that your daughter, Knight-Corporal Yvaine Cresswell, has been reported missing in action, presumed dead. Here enclosed lies letters of condolences from her commanding officer and brothers-in-arms…_

Six years it had been, and yet there were still days where she felt as lost as she had at fourteen, having just heard her big sister, her role model, her best friend, had died at the edge of the world. And now, seemingly all for naught. 

She forced down the swell of anger that rose at the first glimpse of a figure sitting under an apple tree, seemingly enjoying the crispness of the early autumn afternoon. 

_You promised to give her a chance. If it is her it’d be stupid to miss this chance out of misplaced anger._

The creature’s hair was a strange shade, like a deep red half faded, just a touch longer than her sister had kept it. The hands, visible in the simple linen shirt and leather breeches she was wearing, were pale as ice and as slender as an elf’s, like all the meat had sloughed off them. 

The woman turned her head as Alvilda approached. She froze in place, taking in the familiar features covered in skin so pale it was almost blue, and so emaciated you’d think her a corpse. Which she was, she corrected herself, just a walking one. A corpse with eyes of the right shape but a ghastly shade of glowing ice blue. A monster in her sister’s body.

“Alvie?” the monster said, in the voice of her sister, but with a strange echo, like the wail of a winter storm. The creature got up, and reached out a hand, before quickly letting it drop and looking at the ground, her bangs falling to cover her face.

“You’re all grown up now,” the spectre managed awkwardly, intently staring at her bare feet, dusted with reddish dirt yet pale and bone thin beneath.

“Alvie, I’m… I’m so sorry, alright? About everything. I just want all of you to know that. You don’t have to talk to me or anything, but it’s… wonderful to see you again. My baby sister…” 

The last words managed to unfreeze the younger woman, her brow lowering into a frown.

“Are yeh? My sister? You look almost right, you sound almost right, but how would I know? It’s been six years. Six years where ya didne as much as breathe a word o’ th' fact 'at _ye were alive th' whole time_! We moorned ya! There’s ‘n empty grave beneath yer apple tree! Ma was a reit mess, as poorly as when Pa died, an’ Lach off an’ joined the SI:7 like that’d help!”

Her brogue thickened as she got going, half a decade’s worth of anger gushing out. For leaving her alone with their grieving mother, for the three years where Lach barely wrote home as he buried himself in his training, for the second empty chair at their dinner table that’d never be filled.

“I’m-I’m sorry, deirfiúr bheag. I’m so sorry.” The creature’s face crumbled, then contorted as if in a sob, but no tears came. Perhaps she wasn’t able to cry anymore. Alvilda sighed, and bit back her automatic retort that this remnant wasn’t allowed to call her _little sister_.

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted. Look. I’m not sure about much right now, but, I want to try, airright?”

“You do?” The woman’s face seemed to light up, a tentative smile that looked so much like Ivy it ached curling the corners of her mouth.

“Would nae have come if I didn’t,” the mage said simply, gesturing towards a nearby bench for them to sit. They subconsciously kept a careful distance, just a bit too much to be friendly, but the mage could still feel the cold emanating from the undead. Her sister made an apologetic grimace and moved a bit further away.

“So, er, Ma and Gran sent along some things from home, ya ken? I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to, er, eat, anymore, but…”

“Thank you, I appreciate that. And I _can_ still eat, but things taste a wee bit different.”

“Can you still get drunk?” the younger woman blurted out, curiosity getting the better of her.

“Uh, I haven’t tried?” the former paladin replied with a grin, “Calia’s not much for partying.”

“Wanna give it a go?” she offered, having dug out a bottle of homemade apple cider from her pack, reasonably weak, but enough to give you a nice buzz.

“Definitely,” her sister agreed with a chuckle.

They had a small picnic beneath that apple tree, feasting on cheese, dark bread and plenty of fruit and berries straight from the farm, kept carefully preserved in a box lined with frost runes.

“You brought Tali along?” Yvaine asked between strawberries. She’d failed to feel as much as the slightest tingle of intoxication, but was happy to frolic in the sunshine with her long lost sister. It had been so long…

“Aye, she’s eating herself sick down by the river, I left her by a good fishing spot.”

“It’ll be strange to see her fully grown, you’d only just started flying on her when…”

“Aye. Mind if I ask what happened to Sireadh?” Ivy's gryphon had been her pride and joy, a calm, gentle creature, yet a fury in battle.

“She was shot down, poor thing. Just days before.”

“I’m sorry. She was a real beaut, Siri, with those light grey feathers. And gentle as a lamb, too.”

“Aye, one of Ma’s best. I still miss her. I wish I’d been able to bury her back home, by the aviary.” Part of her longed to go back home, to walk by the loch, to weed the gardens and feed the gryphons their disgusting fish slop. Would they shy away from her, now? Even the ones that had been alive when she was last there probably wouldn’t recognize her, she almost certainly smelled different.

“I wonder if a hatchling would imprint on you, now. We could definitely try.”

“You’d do that?”

“Why not? You’re still a Mullan, aren’t ya? I’m sure Ma would let you have an egg, once she got used to everything and all.”

“You really think so?”

“I know so.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready to go home quite yet.”

“Well, when you do, you’ll be welcome. And we can visit you here.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course. You’re still my sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Homebrew dwarven (mostly scots gaelic with a bit of irish thrown in once in a while)  
> deirfiúr bheag - little sister


	2. Parchment and Quill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alvie writes home.

The quill hovered over the parchment, quivering slightly in the hand of the mage holding it, poised in place below the quickly scrawled greeting of _leannan màthair,_ dearest mother. She had never been the most natural of correspondents, her letters home often brief and stilted. She knew how to write academic dissertations, and military reports, but keeping her family apprised of her whereabouts and wellbeing without inviting needless worry and confusion or sharing classified information was often a chore. This letter, however, was far more consequential than her usual slightly-too-infrequent notes.

 _It’s her,_ she decided to start it with. Meeting her sister, so many years after her presumed demise, had been heartbreaking, ripping open a wound not quite healed, but it had been good, too. _It’s still my sister,_ she reminded herself. _Still Ivy._ It was hard to wrap her head around her sister, dead for more than half a decade, standing before her, a corpse animated and preserved by foul magics, yet still, her. The same smile, on pale, chapped lips. The same laughter, with a haunted echo. They’d shared a bottle of cider beneath an apple tree, and if it had not felt quite right, it wasn’t all wrong either.

 _She’s different,_ she added to her note, _but it’s still Yvaine. She remembers, everything. She’s scared too._ Her sister had told her much beneath that apple tree, but there were still large gaps in her tale, between her death and her joining Lady Calia’s convent. The priestess had filled in some, but insisted the rest was for Ivy to tell when she was ready.

 _She wants to come home, eventually, but she’s not sure she’s ready. Lady Calia has been helping her. She’s a good woman, her unusual status notwithstanding._ The priestess’ glowing golden eyes and unnatural pallor had scared her at first, until the former princess’ kind words and demeanor had put her at ease. Her appearance had nothing on many of the people she was helping however, a collection of undead ranging from death knights who’d pass for living if not for their glowing eyes and pale skin, to those little more than ghouls, heavily decomposed with more “replacement” limbs than original ones. She shuddered at the thought of a man she’d politely greeted as she passed him weeding a vegetable patch, all but running in terror when he rose to return it and in the process showed off his missing jaw and bloated, half rotten tongue still dangling from the ruin of his throat.

_She’s much affected, Ma. She mourns the life she lost, and holds very little hope for her new one. She’s all but lost her connection to the Light, and what little of its power she can channel burns her, rebelling against the vileness of her resurrection. Lady Calia claims it will ease, in time, but I fear she may give up without the knowledge that her family is waiting to welcome her back. The guilt she feels for leaving us behind could well crush her if we don’t forgive her. I promised her I’d try, and try to convince you to do the same._

Listening to her sister recount her attempts to once again bask in the glory of her beloved Light had been painful. Alvilda had never been very religious herself, focusing on the Arcane since the first stirrings of her magical talent, but Yvaine had found the Light shortly after their father’s death, spending hours in prayer at their village’s chapel and finding her calling as a warrior of the Light. It had been a fundamental part of her identity, and now she was struggling like the youngest of acolytes to feel the tiniest glimmer of its presence.

 _She needs us, màthair. She needs her family._ Signing it with a practiced motion, she rolled up the small scroll of parchment and sealed it with a stray bit of string, ready to be properly addressed and sent to the Wetlands as soon as she dropped it off at the mailbox in nearby Seabreeze Village. For now, she’d remain near the convent, getting closer to this new version of her sister, and hopefully begin to reconcile her with the one she knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Homebrew dwarven (mostly scots gaelic with a bit of irish thrown in once in a while)  
> deirfiúr bheag - little sister  
> leannan màthair - dearest mother  
> màthair - mother


	3. Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fireside chat.

It was easier, sitting in front of a fire, to pretend not to feel the cold emanating from her sister’s body. She was growing more accustomed to the many changes undeath had brought on her sibling by the day, but it was still difficult not to shy away when feeling her unnatural cold or spotting one of the strange, dark scars from the day she’d died. _Time,_ Lady Calia had cautioned, _it all takes time_. The eyes were the hardest. Her sister had had beautiful hazel eyes, always sparking with purpose and conviction. Now, the original color had been swallowed by the pale blue glow of her undeath.

Alvilda had tried to tell herself she was fine with elves and draenei with glowing eyes, why should her sister be any different, but sometimes she’d still glance at her sister, having momentarily forgotten, and flinch upon catching her gaze. It was difficult for both of them. Yvaine hated her body, hated most of all that it had been forced upon her against her will, even if she was grateful for a second chance at life. _One day,_ the mage thought fiercely, _I WILL be able to hug my sister again without flinching._

“How was your time in the chapel today?” she asked to break the silence.

“Good,” the former paladin answered, “We prayed. Meditated. It was… Difficult.” Her sister sighed. For one once so completely devoted to the Light, filled with its purpose, it was deeply trying to feel so cut off from it, and experiencing even the slightest connection as blindingly painful instead of the gentle warming touch it had once been.

“You said you were going to read up on something? I confess, it’s odd to see you as a fully trained magi, you were just an apprentice… before.” Ivy continued to skirt around the topic of her death, treating it as taboo. Alvilda had tried to reassure her it was fine to talk about it and her sister had quietly admitted it was she who was not comfortable discussing it, not yet.

“Aye, I was studying advanced illusive techniques. They’re tricky, my talents lie in the… less subtle arts.”

“So throwing a fireball at the problem instead of trying to convince the problem they never saw you at all or that there’s another enemy over there that’s way more interesting?”

“Exactly. Far more straightforward. But for a mage of my years competence in at the very least basic invisibility and glamour spells are expected.”

“Glamour?”

“Making something look like something else. Say as a disguise? I could make my face appear different or change my clothes or even make that doorway look like a bookcase instead. If I could get a handle on the spell that is. The somatic components are astonishingly complex.”

“Uhuh.”

“Like obviously illusions can only fool the senses of vision and hearing but that can be astonishingly powerful in a pinch. Problem is making a _moving_ illusion is a million times as difficult as just a static image like hiding a doorway. Takes basically all your concentration. Nasty drain on mana too.”

“Mhmm.”

“Jandice Barov is thought to have been able to make several perfect copies of her own body, moving independently and even using magic of their own! Imagine that! And I can barely make an apple look like an orange!”

“Mmm.”

“I’m pretty decent at invisibility by now, but it annoys me a lot I can’t keep it up for more than a dozen seconds. Strange how it’s easier to not make people see something at all than to make them see something else than what’s there.”

“Yeah…”

“Ivy?”

“Wait what? What did you say?”

“I thought undead barely slept, this is impressive.” Alvilda laughed at her sister’s crestfallen expression, patting her on the arm without thought.

“I’m sorry Alvie, I completely zoned out. You were talking about your studies?”

“It doesn’t matter, I was just rambling. Are you okay?” They were sitting closer than normal on the bench by the fire, Ivy’s cold almost smothered by the heat coming off the hearth in waves.

“Just thinking. You seem to be dealing with a lot of this better than I am, and I’m not sure if it’s because you don’t fully understand? You obviously don’t know everything about what happened to me, but I doubt you even know much of the ugly facts of undeath.” The older woman sucked in a needless breath, wiping her forehead of nonexistent sweat.

“I want, so badly, for things to go back to normal. To go home, and see the rest of our family, and for everything to click into place like I never… left. But it won’t be the same, because I’m different, and you are too! It’s been six years, dammit. Six years I lost because I was scared.” Yvaine seemed to be fighting tears she was no longer physically able to shed.

“Lady Calia’s helping, of course she is, but it’s going so slow, and I just feel like more and more time is slipping through my fingers. I missed so much. I left two scrawny teenagers back home, and here you are, and you’re telling me Lach is some important undercover SI:7 agent. And you’re the most open of the bunch, you always were empathetic to a fault, and even you shied away from me when you first saw me. Ma and Gran lived through the Third War, they’re as likely to run screaming at the sight of me as they are to welcome me with open arms. And that’s not even to mention Lach. Poor Lach. He took Pa’s death poorly enough, and then me… You were just seven, you barely understood what was happening, but Lach thought he had to be the man of the house, protect all of us, the silly lad. By the Light, he was just ten. He never got to be a child again, not really."

"I convinced him to trust me. That I’d take care of the family. And I failed. I failed him. I failed all of you. I… I died in some frozen wasteland for a cause I believed in then but now… I should have stayed home. But I was young and stupid and felt invincible, and thought I’d do more good in the Alliance than on some backwater farm with naught but the gryphons for company.” Her sister finally seemed to talk herself weary, lapsing into a silence only broken by the crackling of the fire.

“Ivy. Listen to me.” Alvilda gave her sister’s arm a gentle touch, controlling herself as to not flinch. It wasn’t uncomfortable, after the first shock. “You didn’t fail us. We mourned you. We missed you. But we were alright. We were safe, and after a while even happy again. Lach went off with the SI:7, true, but he would have done that years earlier anyway if you hadn’t stopped him. Ma was so proud of you. You died for a proud cause, deirfiúr mhór. And you didn’t die in vain. We missed you, so, so much, and they still do, but we never blamed you, not really.” The mage had, for a while, caught in the emotional vagaries of youth, but she’d grown out of it. And Ivy didn’t need to hear that right now.

“I miss them too. So so much. As soon as I was… me, again, I missed you. I missed home. But I was so scared, deirfiúr bheag. And so confused. I didn’t understand anything. My unlife was nothing but pain and fear. Roaming among blighted wastes, starving in a way no food sated, remembering nothing between the day I died and the day I regained my mind. I didn’t even know I was undead until I reached a settlement and the villagers fled, screaming of the Scourge. I was so, so hungry. Do you know undead don’t need to eat, or drink, or sleep? We can, but we don’t have to. We’re powered by necromancy. Death. The best way for us to… feed, for lack of a better word, is to kill. To make others suffer. I suppose I must have, before I regained myself, but I don’t remember ever… I wouldn’t, ever, Alvie, I swear… But, the hunger remained. Gnawing, roiling, making me weaker and weaker for every day I refused to give in. Mortal food and sleep slowed it some, but not enough."

"That’s what Lady Calia did for me, deirfiúr bheag. The first time she helped me refind the Light, it was the most blinding agony I can ever remember, but for a moment, after, I wasn’t hungry. I may have had my mind, before, but I was so scared that if I ever ventured near any living, or even you, I might… So I stayed away. And now, with Lady Calia’s tutelage, I still feel the hunger, but it’s not crippling anymore. Food and sleep is almost enough to sate it. That’s when I wrote you. When I felt safe to be around people again. I feel… not whole, but like I could be, again. That if I just pushed a bit harder, just forced myself to endure a bit more, I might not have to be a monster anymore.”

“You’re not a monster,” her little sister said quietly, still closer than she normally would be.


	4. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lach, the middle sibling, decides to show up.

Their brother had always been rash, prone to quick decisions, particularly where his family and loved ones were concerned. The SI:7 had tempered it somewhat, but not entirely. Still, she’d never expected something like this from him. Showing up, unannounced, yelling at everyone in range the moment he landed on his gryphon, was just _rude._ Their mother had raised them better.

“By the Stone, what are you raising such a fuss about?!” she yelled as she entered the village square, winded from running all the way from the nearby convent.

“Alvie! What are you doing here?! I came as soon as I heard you went to visit, this, this, _thing_ that claims to be our sister!” He’d worked himself into a proper lather, eyes wild and voice rough with rage, his windswept hair and untrimmed beard only adding to the effect.

“Och, calm down, you’re frightening the locals! Lach, it’s not as you think-” But she had no chance to finish her sentence, her brother off his gryphon and moving into her space.

“I will not calm down! What were you thinking, Alvie! Our sister is _gone,_ even if some vile curse is animating her corpse!” He pointed an accusatory finger at her, gesticulating wildly, showing off his dirty fingernails and worn leather half gloves.

“That is not _true,_ you need to relax and see sense! I can explain everything, alright, if you’ll just calm down a bit we can sit down and discuss it over a cold drink-”

“Oh so you’ll explain everything? That’s great, Alvie. Shame your explanations only ever make sense to yourself!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded, rising anger adding color to her cheeks.

“I dunno what nonsense those mages taught you in their ivory towers but out here in the _real world_ , good intentions aren’t enough!”

“How dare you, you condescending son-of-a… I’ve seen plenty of the real world!”

“Have you now? Where? From inside a library?”

“I’ve spent near two years with the Alliance, and you know it!"

"The mages were helpful against the Legion, but whatever odd jobs you've done since hardly count!"

“And killing people in their sleep or poisoning their food is better? At least I've been helping people, Lach!"

“Now you mind the SI:7’s methods? Didn’t see you complaining the last dozen times they saved your life!”

“You can shove your superiority right up your arse, Lachlan! How dare you pretend to be better than me, sneaking around doing Ancestors knows what, us only hearing from you once or twice a year! When was the last time you were home? When was the last time you looked our grandmother in the eye?”

“I’m protecting our family and you know it! My work’s important, I can’t go running off to some backwater farm every few months for a nice little visit!”

“Protecting us? You left us! Ran off first chance you got, barely ever looking back!”

“You _know_ that’s not how it was, I was in a right sorry state after-”

“After Ivy! And now you’re throwing away our only chance to get her back!”

Their sister chose this moment to appear in the now deserted square, alerted by Lady Calia that there was a situation involving her little sister.

“What’s going on?” the undead asked as she approached, abruptly stopping when she recognized the young man her sister was talking to. “Oh,” she sighed, quietly, her face falling into a mask of resigned grief. Alvilda had almost gotten used to her sister’s new voice, but now, it sounded as grating as it had on that first day, the strange echo screaming _wrong, wrong, wrong._

“Lachlan, mo luran, I’m-”

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” he gritted out, deliberately turning away from the woman that had once been his sister. “Sister, I’ll be in Fort Daelin until dawn. Find me there. Or don’t.” With that, he got back on his gryphon, the ill temper of its rider making it scrape and beat its wings in frustration before taking off.

The older sister broke into dry sobs, hugging herself as to replace the touch the living now shied away from giving her.

“Ivy, I…”

“Don’t, deirfiúr bheag. Just don’t.” Instead, the mage pulled her sister into a hug, only just flinching at the first touch of her icy skin.

_He just needs to calm down,_ she’d reassured her sister. _You know Lach, his temper’s always burned hot and quick._ But now, flying north in the last rays of dusk a few hours later, she was not so sure. She’d more or less successfully consoled her sister, leaving her in the capable hands of Lady Calia, who understood the situation after only a handful of words and the expression of rage and regret on the younger sister’s face, and that of crushing grief and defeat on the older’s.

She did think leaving Lachlan to stew for a few hours would improve her prospects, leaving him time to regret and doubt instead of remaining seeped in righteous rage that took no quarter. She was reasonably certain he would at the least regret the way he’d spoken to her. But the man who’d screamed at her in that square was not quite the older brother she knew, too bitter and hateful compared even to the resentful ball of rage he’d been for large parts of his teen years. For one moment in their fight, she’d even been afraid he might attempt to strike her, so lost to anger did he seem.

Landing in Fort Daelin, she searched the familiar lines of tents bursting the seams of the fortress' courtyard, and would have checked the permanent structures next, if she hadn’t at last spotted him in a dark corner of the mess hall, alone even though most other tables were full with various other occupants. The table in front of him was littered with several empty tankards, as well as a half empty bottle of something stronger. He no longer seemed to be actively drinking, however, instead seemingly half asleep, but as she got closer, she noticed his eyes were alert, if red with drink and tears.

“Ah, uilebheist bheag. Didn’t think you’d come,” he said, just a bit slurred, as she sat down on the chair across from him.

“Of course I did,” she scoffed, sniffing the bottle’s contents. Rum, she thought, but of such poor quality it made little matter.

“I wasn’t expecting her to be that good. The puppet. Flesh-suit. Abomination. Whatever it is. Looks like her. Almost sounds like her, even. I wasn’t expecting it to be that good…” he tapered off, looking into the bottom of his empty tankard.

“Oh, Lach…” She rested a hand on top of his, relieved that he didn’t immediately throw it off.

“What are we going to do, Alvie? It hurts. Hurts like it was just yesterday.”

“I don’t know, bràthair mòr. We give it time.”

“Time. Pfft.” He reached for the bottle of swill and took a healthy swallow. “Ancestors, that’s vile.”

“You bought it.”

“Nah. Swiped it from a table that had plenty on the way in. Regretting it now.”

“You should.”

“I miss her, little sister. I miss her so much. It just doesn’t stop.”

“I know, Lach, I know.”

“I wish she’d never sent that letter. I wish she’d just stayed dead.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I do. Would be easier.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear Lachlan's usually a pretty nice guy! He's super protective of his little sis and has gotten her out of more than a few tight spots. He's also always good for a bad joke and an awkward word of comfort. Grief just makes people stupid. And also the SI:7 isn't very good for your mental health.
> 
> Homebrew dwarven (mostly scots gaelic with a bit of irish thrown in once in a while)  
> deirfiúr bheag - little sister  
> leannan màthair - dearest mother  
> màthair - mother  
> mo luran - my sweet/pretty boy  
> uilebheist bheag - little monster, Lach's nickname for his little sister  
> bràthair mòr - big brother


	5. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alvilda and Yvaine travel home to the farm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note I deleted a previous fic called "Home for a Spell" since it was basically this but with zero plot. Better to introduce the Mullan women as they interact with both sisters. Prepare for loads of homebrew dwarven!

“I think it’s time,” her sister had said, several days after their brother had left. They were sitting under their apple tree, a simple lunch in hand, enjoying one of the last fine days before the autumn storms swept in. “I think I want to go home.”

“Are you sure?”

“You’ve been here almost a month, deirfiúr bheag. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Besides, I don’t think it can get any worse than Lach.”

“You’re not wrong there. I promise he’ll come around, he just needs some time.”

“Aye, we all do.” The former paladin managed a sad laugh, sounding like cracking ice in her echoing voice. “Guess there’s no point drawing it out any further.”

  
Lady Calia, understably, had her reservations, urging Yvaine to reconsider, to give herself more time to recover and heal her connection to the Light before taking such a large step. But she was eventually convinced that any potential setbacks and difficulties could be mitigated by the presence of her supportive younger sister, and made the other woman promise to come back if she needed to.

“This can be your home for as long as you need it to, Yvaine. Even if this goes well, it’s still a lot. You’ll need to pace yourself.”

They ended up flying to Boralus on the back of a slightly overloaded Tali, and took boat to Menethil Harbor from there. It wasn’t a particularly long or noteworthy trip for the younger sister, but Ivy soaked in every second, enjoying the sensations she’d been bereft of for so long. When they docked in the Wetlands, Yvaine paused before disembarking, looking out over the town she’d spent much time in as a child.

“I know it’s changed a lot. There was a big flood during the Cataclysm, and then the renewed ties to Kul Tiras brought a lot of trade…”

“That makes sense,” her sister responded mildly. “I see the old cobbler hasn’t moved shop, at least.”

“Old Dedric? Ma claims he’s been in business since she was a little girl.”

“Probably still makes the toes just a bit too tight, too.”

Yvaine seemed fine, if quiet, for the brief trip across the bay to the farmsteads on its southern lip. She only started displaying signs of distress after landing, Alvilda taking care to set down out of sight of the family grounds, the former paladin biting her blue-black lips and taking rapid, unnecessary breaths.

“Still with me?” her younger sister asked kindly, reaching out a hand. She was almost entirely comfortable touching her now, having practiced suppressing the instinctual flinch at the feel of her undead sister’s cold skin.

“Mostly. I think. Oh, Light, Alvie, what if they run me off?”  
“They won’t. I can’t promise it won’t take time, but they’re not going to turn you away.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, deirfiúr mhór. You didn’t see, after. They’ve missed you terribly. They’re not going to throw away this chance.”

Eventually, their mother found them as they were walking up the hill, Alvie with her hand in Talitheag’s ruff, the poor beast still laden down with their luggage. Mother and daughters froze as they noticed each other, Tali scraping her claws in protest at the sudden stop.

“Ma, this is-” the younger sister tried.

“Aye,” their mother responded, voice laden with emotion. “It’s really you.”

“Màthair, it’s really alright if…” Ivy’s voice cracked over the words, their mother hiding a flinch at her changed voice.

“Hush, mo nighean. Ye’ve made it home. That’s all that matters.” Their mother reached out a tentative hand, conflict between instinct and desire clear in her eyes, before placing it on her daughter’s cheek, as if to wipe away tears she was no longer capable of shedding.

“Ye’ve gotten so skinny!” the older woman remarked, tears running down her smiling cheeks. All three women managed a watery laugh, before Helka dragged her oldest child into a firm embrace, Ivy’s frame racked by dry sobs as her mother held her.

“Oh, m’eidheann. Ye’re home now. Ye’re home.”

It took no time at all for Helka and her youngest daughter to unload the gryphon and lead a happily cawing Tali to roost with her flock. Yvaine spent the time looking around the grounds of her childhood home, trying to distract herself from the prospect of her last impending reintroduction. The aviary was the same, but a few new outbuildings had been added, and the gardens looked slightly less painstakingly kept than she remembered. Then, wandering past the vegetable patch towards the apple orchard, she paused by the simple stone marker under one of the trees, the carvings simple and the lettering the blunt, squared style preferred by dwarves forced to write in the human alphabet instead of their own. 

_Knight-Corporal Yvaine Cresswell,_ it read. _Born in the year 600, died in the year 619._ Then, below, in dwarven runes, _m’eidheann, may you be at peace in the Light._ It wasn’t the first time Ivy had seen evidence of her own death. The violent scars on her torso, including a ragged line on her side where she’d seemingly been all but cut in half, was proof enough. But it was still a shock to see her own grave, empty though it was. Were she not emotionally drained already, it might have sent her into a panic. As it was, she simply stared at those dwarven runes, the words likely chosen by her mother, feeling so very, very cold, even standing in the pale sunlight. She missed the Light’s gentle caress so terribly.

“Yvaine, where are you- Oh.” Alvilda approached, laying a gentle hand on her sister’s arm.

“It’s a good spot,” the spectre said quietly. The two sisters simply stood there for a time, arms around each other.

Their mother ended up interrupting them, approaching quietly.

“Do ye need some time?” she asked gently, eyes flickering to the tombstone.

“No, no, I’m-” Ivy took a deep, unneeded breath, steadying herself. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Do you want to go inside?”

As soon as they approached the farmhouse, a cacophony of enthusiastic barking began, before a reddish blur raced towards them, assaulting Alvilda, licking the mage’s face with relish before enthusiastically demanding pets. Once satisfied with the greeting, the hound moved to sniff cautiously at a frozen Yvaine, before deciding she was alright with a happy woof, and moving to demand pets from her as well. The former paladin accepted this invitation with a broad grin, giving the mastiff a thorough cuddle before the dog set off towards the vegetable patch, perhaps to scare away some unsuspecting birds.

“Seamus hasnae changed much,” Helka remarked drily, moving towards the back door of the house. “Still as mad as he ever was.”

“Ma!” she called through the open door, “someone’s here to see ya!”

“I’ll be right out!” Cadha called back from deeper inside the house. Alvie and her mother had quickly made themselves at home in the kitchen, the mage sorting through the sisters’ luggage and the mother looking through the pantry in search of something to serve her daughters for lunch, while Yvaine remained in the doorway, hesitant to enter.

“It’s alright,” Alvilda reassured her. Her sister nodded, but remained in the doorway, clutching at the frame hard enough the wood was beginning to creak.

“Alfhild, mo leannan, it’s good to see ya.” The old woman swept her granddaughter into a bear hug, limbs still strong and sturdy despite her age.

“It’s good to see you too, Gran,” the granddaughter managed once she’d been let out of the embrace, noticing her grandmother’s habitual neatly coiled braids were down for a change, the dwarven matriarch’s steel grey hair reaching almost to her knees.

“M’eidheann, do come in, I willnae bite,” Cadha encouraged, smiling gently. Ivy approached slowly, careful not to react to the flurry of emotions that crossed the older woman’s face when she saw her granddaughter’s pale skin and glowing blue eyes.

“Gran,” she said simply, trying not to notice the dwarf’s start at her changed voice. She tentatively reached out a gloved hand as if for a handshake, but Cadha recovered quickly, pulling her grandchild into a quick if heartfelt hug.

“Oh, ye poor thing,” the matriarch whispered, reaching out to stroke her granddaughter’s now gaunt cheek, before recoiling at the icy feel of her skin, but determined, she tried again, even giving Ivy’s chin a little pinch like when she was little. The former paladin managed a smile. “Welcome home, mo ghràidh. It’s good to have ye back.”

Alvilda watched from the sidelines, a watery smile stretched across her tear-soaked cheeks. It wasn’t perfect, and it would still take time, lots of it, but for the first time in almost seven years, her sister was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned, the next few chapters will likely be domestic fluff interspersed with angst and awkwardness as everyone adjusts
> 
> Homebrew dwarven (mostly scots gaelic with a bit of irish thrown in once in a while)  
> deirfiúr bheag - little sister  
> leannan màthair - dearest mother  
> màthair - mother  
> mo luran - my sweet/pretty boy  
> uilebheist bheag - little monster, Lach's nickname for his little sister  
> bràthair mòr - big brother  
> deirfiúr mhór - big sister  
> mo nighean - my daughter  
> m'eaidheann - my Ivy, Dwarven nickname for Yvaine  
> mo leannan - my sweetheart, dwarven endearment  
> mo ghràidh - my dear, dwarven endearment
> 
> Years used on tombstone are in the King's Calendar, translating to 8 and 27 years after the opening of the Dark Portal, respectively


	6. Adjustment

The next few days passed with little incident. Yvaine adjusted quickly to the familiar life on the farm, her previously rare smiles coming more often, and recovered from minor setbacks easier, rarely needing to detach entirely. There was some awkwardness, of course, such as when some of the more cautious gryphons refused to go near this strangely smelling two-leg, but some of the bolder hatchlings quickly grew fond of the former paladin, happily, and sometimes slightly forcefully, including her in their play as they would their other tenders. That resulted in another awkwardness, when one, eager for a treat, nipped slightly too hard at Ivy’s finger, drawing blood.

“Ah, crud,” she exclaimed, examining the wound. Alvilda, who was absently stroking Talitheag between the eyes after completing their daily grooming ritual, quickly came over.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, one of the wee ones just decided I was a chew toy.”

“Let me see,” the younger sister requested, reaching out for the former paladin’s hand. She was no healer, but she did know basic first aid, and in any event a gryphon bite needed to at the very least be cleaned and covered in a clean bandage to prevent infection.

“Ah, nah, there’s no need, let’s just head back, you were done anyway right?” The older woman fidgeted uncharacteristically, keeping her hand conspicuously out of sight. She seemed almost… embarrassed, a sight her younger sister hadn’t seen for most of a decade.

“Ivy, what’s wrong? It didn’t hurt you too badly, right? If it did we’ll need to get you to Ma right away, I was never much of a field medic.”   


“No, no, it’s really nothing!”

“Oh don’t be such a baby, you don’t want it to get infected right?”

“I don’t really  _ get _ infections anymore,” the undead muttered. “Let’s just go inside.”

“Why are you making such a big  _ deal  _ about this - oh.” Alvilda had forcibly reached for her sister’s hand, examining the pale, spindly appendage, littered with small, silvery scars from a rough-and-tumble childhood and the rigours of the Alliance, and, currently, sluggishly bleeding from a bite near the knuckle of the thumb. But not the normal rich red blood of most of the denizens of Azeroth. It came closest to the color of draenei blood, something the mage had grown far too familiar with during her time in Draenor, but it was a darker blue, and the texture was all wrong, thick-flowing and almost clumping in places.

“I know you all know, but that doesn’t mean I want you reminded every few minutes,” the older woman snapped, tearing back her hand and storming out of the aviary, leaving the hatchlings chirping in confusion.

“Dammit, Ivy! Stone, it doesn’t matter! I don’t care! You’re still my sister!” That made her turn around, fists unclenching, looking both annoyed and slightly embarrassed at her outburst.

“Aye, I know,” she sighed, the echoing of her voice clearer as always when she was upset. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” the younger sibling replied, resting a gentle hand on her sister’s shoulder. They were getting better at casual touching. It might never be quite the same as before, but at least they could hug now without either party flinching.

“Do you have a first aid kit somewhere? I don’t really want Ma or Gran to see…”

“Of course, there’s one in the shed.”

Meals were a bit stilted for the first few days, Yvaine eating sparingly until her mother or grandmother tutted in concern, and then politely cleared her plate and complimented the cooking, but she confided to her little sister that she just didn’t need as much food as before, and many dishes simply tasted like sawdust. Fruit came easiest. Fish and meat were also alright, and some dairy products, but grains were difficult to get down. Alvie carefully relayed this to her grandmother, and from then on Ivy’s breakfast plate came stacked with her preferred fruits instead of the hearty dwarven stables the family favored.

“Like feeding an elf,” the matriarch muttered, as she carefully sliced up her granddaughter’s favorite strawberries. The old dwarf made an amusing sight with her neatly coiled hair and worn, hand painted apron professing her to be “BEST GRAN” in childish, lopsided letters. It had been a present from her grandchildren almost two decades before, and even featured a handprint from a then toddling Alvilda.

“Elves don’t polish off half a rack of lamb on their own,” Alvie chuckled, stirring the porridge and adding some more honey.

“Aye, that’s something, I suppose.”

There were many such small adjustments. Yvaine happily took her old room, but needed far less sleep than the other members of the household, and instead spent the early dawn hours praying and practicing her connection to the Light, until Alvie, never an early riser, threw a pillow at their shared wall, complaining of the incessant chanting. Her sister took her meditations outside after that.

Seamus took easily to Ivy’s return, happily including her in his “pack” and enjoying playing with her. It wasn’t quite clear if he remembered her from before, but both parties seemed happy with their relationship, so the mage didn’t pry.

Glenda, Cadha’s ancient blue grey cat, quickly learned Ivy was an excellent cooler if one were to spend slightly too long bathing in sunbeams, and grew fond of laying in her lap, accepting pets.

All in all, things were going as well as could be expected. The awkwardness reduced as their stay reached into its second week, all parties settling in, and, particularly their grandmother, simply being happy to have Ivy back.

“I always hoped, lass. I know it’s been awful for ye, but I’m just so happy to have ye back, m’eidheann,” the older woman confessed through misty eyes, reaching over to pat her oldest grandchild’s too-hollow cheek. “Even if ye’re still skinny as a twig!”

They settled into a routine, Helka spending most of her time tending her beloved gryphons, her daughters helping with the heavy lifting, and seeing to the farm’s small orchards and gardens.

“Almost time tah pull the taters now,” she declared in satisfaction, taking off her wide-brimmed hat to wipe at her brow, mostly succeeding in smearing dirt over her face. “You girls still remember how? Been a few years.”

“‘Course we do, Ma,” Ivy responded, adding a long suffering sigh for effect. “Not something ye forget.” Her mother had tried to make her wear a hat too, the autumn sunlight surprisingly sharp, but had relented after the former paladin had muttered something about it not really being necessary.

“Hmm,” the older woman continued skeptically. “At least you still have the hands for this work, yer sister’s gone all soft from her readin’ and such.”   
“Have not!” the mage defended herself indignantly from the kale patch, continuing her weeding despite her sore fingers, littered with small cuts. She’d always kept some calluses since she’d never stopped riding Tali, but it had admittedly been a while since she’d engaged in more menial labor.

“Right ye are, lass. Remember to get some of the earthroot salve for yer hands before ye turn in.”

“Hmph,” was all Alvie said in response, resisting the urge to suck at her yet again bleeding index finger.

The younger sister spent more time with her grandmother anyway, helping her with the various preserving needed for the coming winter, and spending calm afternoons in the sunbathed living room, the mage catching up on her studying while Cadha knitted a sweater for her eldest granddaughter, made of the finest sheep’s wool, dyed a light blue.

“For yer eyes,” the old woman had said simply when Ivy had asked. “Besides, ye always looked bonny in blue.”

And so it went, until one overcast morning, Lachlan decided to make an appearance. It took a while to notice his gryphon on the horizon, Asgaidh’s grey plumage well hidden in the clouds, but once Alvie could make out a small figure on the gryphon’s back, she ran to warn Ivy, who was absorbed in watching the hatchlings at play, two siblings play-wrestling until the male accidentally bit too hard, making his sister squeak in indignation and fly on still clumsy wings out of his reach.

“Lach’s coming,” she informed her sister, trying to sound less worried than she was.

“Aye. Only question is why.”

“Last time I saw him, he did seem… well, he seemed like he needed time, but he did want to try.”

“I guess we’ll see.”

He landed by the orchard, quickly slipping off his gryphon’s tack.

“Go on, boy,” he muttered, giving the beast permission to join its flock in the aviary with a quick pat on the rump. He paused for a moment, covered in the dust of travel, bags and saddle piled up beside him, waiting for his sisters to emerge, but his mother found him first, rushing towards him from where she’d been puttering around the garden.

“Lach, mo bhuachaill, it’s so good to see ya, lad,” she managed through a tight hug, proceeding to fuss over the state of him, not seeming to realize she was just as covered in dirt herself. The two sisters, still half hidden in the stables, exchanged a look, Ivy shaking her head with wide eyes at the silent question her sister had conveyed with a jerk of her head. Alvie pressed her lips together, slightly disappointed, before giving a brief nod, leaving the building as her brother patiently insisted he was absolutely fine and just needed a brief wash, rest and maybe a bite to eat over their mother’s stubborn insistence to spoil her only son.

“ Mo bhràthair,” she greeted him softly, taking in the week’s worth of stubble and deep bags under his eyes. It wasn’t unusual for Lach to look a bit worn whenever he made it home, but she hadn’t seen him looking this bad in years.

“Sister,” he responded, taking a step towards her and reaching out a hand. She rolled her eyes, and pulled him in for a hug, quickly retreating once the smell of him hit.

“Phew, you smell like you’ve been sleeping off a bender in the stables,” she accused, trying to make it sound like a joke.

“You’re not far off,” he muttered, glancing sheepishly at their mother. “It’s good to see you, uilebheist bheag.”

“You too, idiot.” She narrowed her eyes, adding: “I sure hope you’re here to apologize.”

“I’m here to try,” he answered earnestly. “Last time I was an arse. I’ll try to do better.”

“Good.” She gave him an honest smile that he returned, if a bit regretfully. 

“Ivy!” she called, “It’s safe to come out now!” Their sibling emerged hesitantly, halfway expecting her brother to begin shouting abuse again, and kept a careful distance from her brother.

“Yvaine,” he greeted her, stilted and almost formal. His eldest sister’s face twisted in a slight grimace, saddened by his continued distance.

“Lachlan,” she returned, trying a tentative smile. “It’s good to see you.” He held out a hand, for the first time looking her directly in the eye, only startling slightly at their eerie glow.

“Fresh start?” he offered, barely managing to suppress a flinch at the chill of his sister’s hand in his.

“Deal,” she agreed, holding his hand in both of hers instead of shaking it, a smile lighting up her still beautiful face. On the sidelines, their mother looked close to tears of relief, while their younger sister seemed to be fighting the urge to roll her eyes or maybe whoop in triumph.

“Come on, Gran’ll find you summat to eat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Homebrew dwarven (mostly scots gaelic with a bit of irish thrown in once in a while)  
> deirfiúr bheag - little sister  
> leannan màthair - dearest mother  
> màthair - mother  
> mo luran - my sweet/pretty boy  
> uilebheist bheag - little monster, Lach's nickname for his little sister  
> bràthair mòr - big brother  
> deirfiúr mhór - big sister  
> mo nighean - my daughter  
> m'eaidheann - my Ivy, Dwarven nickname for Yvaine  
> mo leannan - my sweetheart, dwarven endearment  
> mo ghràidh - my dear, dwarven endearment  
> mo bhuachaill - my boy  
> mo bràthair - my brother


End file.
